


there is hunger in this blood

by inkhorn



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Fantasizing, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkhorn/pseuds/inkhorn
Summary: Somewhere in between Zagreus’ cocky smirk and the splash of red across the arena, temptation has weaseled into the king’s unsuspecting veins. What a true villain Zagreus was! For even when Theseus seized his triumph, it was Zagreus who has left that rancid curse in his wake. It is the only explanation for why Theseus’ victories begin to slip, for why his words falter and his cheeks flare hot when Zagreus needles him.And why, gods above, can he not stop thinking of him?(Hades kinkmeme fill)
Relationships: Background Theseus/Asterius, Theseus/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 259
Collections: Hades Kink Meme





	there is hunger in this blood

**Author's Note:**

> kinkmeme fill for this wonderful prompt: "I want to see Theseus just wildly horny for Zagreus and furious about it. He gets defeated by Zag and angrily jacks afterward, keeps getting distracted in fights thinking about taking him in the arena, lots of fantasizing about completely dominating him etc etc etc. Deep sexual frustration"

**I. Prelude**

When Hades first entreated him and Asterius, the Champions of Elysium, to guard the surface from his contemptuous son, Theseus had not thought much of this… Zagreus. It was in the very nature of gods to spawn almost as vivaciously as mortals did, only their children were afforded clever little titles, the patron of this thing or that. Nyx herself had a host of children for nearly every foul emotion a man could imagine. It was natural, of course, that Hades would have some whiny and destitute child bitter to be the god of stones or what have you, and rebel against his all-powerful father. It was easy to imagine what sorts of deities Hades would produce. Large and hulking like himself, surely, with a face covered in a blanket of a beard.

Therefore when he actually does meet Zagreus, the prince defies expectation, though Theseus refuses to show it. He has practiced for this moment, bothering Asterius with exactly how he will greet that blackguard and promise him defeat. What he has not been anticipating is for Zagreus to call him a _legend_ , to praise Asterius and invoke his cousin Heracles’ name with such enthusiasm that Theseus would otherwise have been flattered. It takes the strength of a hero not to preen — particularly when the admiration comes from such handsome lips. Zagreus is a runt by godly standards, no taller than a human man and no broader than one either, but he is still built chiseled from that divine blood that runs thick within him. His hair is messy and tousled, and his eyes bright and sharp like his father’s. They are thrilling: the promise of a challenge and a conquest in one.

Theseus doesn’t yet realize there’s trouble, the first time he bests Zagreus. The tiny god hits the arena with the king’s spear still stuck in his shoulder and promptly dissolves into shocking, crimson blood. The consequence of Zagreus’ death is not yet foretold, but it hardly matters: the mere sight instills such a high within Theseus that he marches around Elysium bragging of it for hours, while patient Asterius cleans both their weapons.

Hades’ kin, fallen to _him_!

“The divine are not so easily discouraged, king,” Asterius tells him once Theseus has returned to the fields beyond the arena, properly bloated with praise. The minotaur is wiping the dried flecks from the steel of his axe — though monotonously and not with the hail of a victor, as Theseus would expect. It does not matter that Asterius is not so forthcoming about his thoughts on Zagreus. Theseus assumes they are but a reflection of his own.

“Ah Asterius, of course not!” he chuffs, and he swings his spear in a mockery of that killing blow. “Though they are no less subject to the humiliation of defeat! Our _miserable_ challenger shall think long and well on his wounds before he dares to next contest our might!”

Still — the memory of it is so fond he finds himself wishing that the godling would soon reappear.

(But only so that he might thrash him again.)

Theseus hears the call that Zagreus has breached Elysium again just a short while later, and he springs to the arena with a warrior’s ecstasy. Once more their battle sings, though in this instance Zagreus has managed to fell Asterius with a shield that defies the minotaur’s strength. Theseus, of course, rains punishment upon him. The sheer satisfaction of Zagreus slumping to his knees while Theseus stands, panting and glistening with sweat, above him is — well, it is an image that will remain with him, particularly in the most sordid of nights. He describes it in perfect detail to Asterius later, and then again to any who will listen. The daemon had been at his mercy, he croons. There’s much reenactment when he spars with Asterius, all full of promises to defend him eternally and adoration for their bond. It is his pride as the arena’s Champion. A victory truly well won.

Now, looking back, it was the beginning of that illicit hunger. Somewhere in between Zagreus’ cocky smirk and the splash of red across the arena, temptation had weaseled into the king’s unsuspecting veins. What a true villain Zagreus was! For even when Theseus seized his triumph, it was Zagreus who had left that rancid curse in his wake. It is the only explanation for why Theseus’ victories begin to slip, for why his words falter and his cheeks flare hot when Zagreus needles him.

And why, gods above, can he not stop _thinking_ of him?

~

**II. Smolder**

It is difficult to recall his existence before Zagreus. Elysium has no tell of time, but the fiend’s presence has become something of Theseus’ watch: the periods of Zagreus’ absence are the ocean’s receded tide, and then the wave always, inevitably, comes again. It’s gradual, how Theseus’ existence begins to revolve around it. Asterius has noticed. On more than one occasion has the minotaur commented that Theseus cannot let go of Zagreus, that he is letting thoughts of the young god consume him. Predictably, they fought over it — but the argument left a sick feeling in Theseus’ stomach, for even as he argued, he knew that he was wrong.

The only other foe that ever gripped his heart this terribly is Asterius. The sentiments he has for each, however, are difficult to compare. That tenderness he and Asterius share is whole and calming, but that accursed desire for Zagreus is the smoke of the battlefield and the taste of sweat and steel — and Theseus craves it just as badly.

Far worse than merely _feeling_ this is the threat that someday his heart might bleed right out of his chest for someone to witness. If Asterius knew what traitorous thoughts impede him, he would never deserve the bull’s respect again. How horrible it would be, to describe the depths of this _obnoxious_ lust to one of his own former opponents, to his now dearest companion! The words that slide from Theseus’ tongue are the most simple ones: downed in pure, unconflicted emotion, with the intuition that so guides his hand without hesitation. He cannot fathom what _hateful obsession_ could mean. It is that he wants to impale him and choke him and conquer him — and yet also see Zagreus’ cheek upon his thigh, whispering for more. Theseus grows paranoid beneath it all. Nothing makes _sense_.

However there’s one realm, he finds, that weds those conflicting thoughts together. The first time he thinks of Zagreus as he strokes himself, he comes so quickly it leaves him aghast. It’s not even satisfying in the wake of shame that rushes over him afterwards. It had been a fluke, he reassures himself. A wandering mind thinking of Zagreus at the exact moment his orgasm hit. Embarrassing and pitiful, but at least that secret is safe locked within his own head.

Then he does it again. The temptation tears into him now and makes him weak, and more and more often does he scuttle off to indulge in these disgusting thoughts alone. They always end with him humping his own hand or bent over with his own fingers up his ass, imagining it’s Zagreus’ tongue as the arena cheers for his sweetest victory yet. The worst of them is when he considers both Zagreus and Asterius’ hot breath on him — dragging the minotaur’s reputation through the muck of his imagination is a disservice enough, but it also makes it painfully distracting to watch the pair of them fight. Theseus is well-acquainted with that thick cock bobbing just beneath Asterius’ tunic and lapels; Zagreus presses so close to him when they duel, and Theseus doesn’t know whether to weep or want.

Foul, distracting emotion. He’s spent too much time trying to dissect it. No matter how many times he tells himself that he will stomach it when Zagreus returns to fight, the very sight of the godling rips that scar back open. Against all logic (or even his own desire!) he finds himself thinking how easy it would be to cover Zagreus’ mouth with his own, bite his lip and his tongue, bury his hands in that messy black hair and pull—

“King!” Asterius bellows to him once when the vision of fantasy steals him completely. Theseus shocks himself back to reality — to the hysteric shouts of the crowd, to Zagreus’ feral expression before him, to the daemon’s own spear thrusting toward his exposed chest.

He narrowly has time to raise his shield. Zagreus’ weapon clinks off the edge, but the momentum sends the young god’s feet toppling right over his. “Watch yourself, fiend!” Theseus snarls at him and with sheer instinct smacks Zagreus’ fat head away with his shield — though regret pulses through him as the blackguard does stumble back and takes his distance. Theseus seethes. A pathetic contender, if he’s missing the most clear opening of all.

Later, after Zagreus has felled them both and they’d since reawaken, the memory of it haunts him. Asterius is resting beside him, his great body curled away but their shoulder blades touching. It’s perverse, to be imagining this against the backdrop of Asterius’ breath. Theseus straightens some so that he is not touching Asterius directly, as if that makes it any better. That charred scent of Zagreus seems to linger all around him — how _close_ he’d been, how easy it would have been to wrestle him to the ground instead. Panting in each other’s ears, hips grinding against hips, the rest of the arena fading away as Zagreus whines like a whore and bucks up against him…

Asterius is _next_ to him, and Theseus still reaches urgently between his legs. The feeling of his palm against his half-hard cock shreds all uncertainty and licks through him like it’s the first time he’s ever been touched. In his mind, it’s Zagreus on his knees, his pupils blown as he looks up at his king. Theseus has pressed his spear to his exposed throat and in Zagreus’ eyes still flickers that challenge that sets Theseus blood afire, but there’s something darker twinning it, a reflection of the king’s own desire.

 _Prove the worth of your blackened life, daemon,_ Theseus commands of him, and the Zagreus of his imagination so eagerly obliges.

Why can he _feel_ Zagreus’ hands upon his thighs? The way just the ghost of those fingers makes Theseus tremble, how he’s breathless knowing Zagreus can use his mouth as well as he spits retorts with it.

A soul’s skin is no less sensitive but, _oh_ , if Zagreus had met him while he was still a king! Some Underworld whelp come to celebrate his victory in Attica, whereupon he would dare run his mouth to the hero of Athens. The guards would have his powerful limbs in chains and would make him kneel prostrate before Theseus until his forehead pressed against the dirt — but there was nothing that could keep those mismatched eyes from looking up at him, begging for a challenge, begging to be _tamed_. The eager whine he’d make would be delicious as Theseus would catch his chin and pull him to where he belongs right between the king’s thighs, that heat of his mouth just as Theseus has always imagined it, teasing but needy, all his clever words only ever a plea of _choke me, please, my king_ —

It was so easy imagining how he would moan. The image of it never failed to make him shudder. The picture of the prince’s lips parted, throat open, tongue welcoming arises so quickly that Theseus’ breath hitches, and he knows he won’t last long. He bites hard upon his lip to stifle noises that would rouse Asterius, but his pelvis is rocking wantingly and the grasses burning up around him as he presses his forehead to the ground. It takes only a few more pumps to the thought of Zagreus’ mouth stretched around him until he is coming, biting the back of his free hand as he groans and twists his legs like a virgin. Only when his sanity slowly returns does he realize that Asterius has stirred beside him. Fear ices his veins and his heart thunders in his head until the bull’s breathing evens out again, and then does Theseus allow his body to sag.

He smears all evidence of his transgression on the dirt and forces his own panting to still. This was the last time, he tells himself. He will tame this obsession by simply not thinking of it.

And yet, by morning, his shame is washed away by his hunger born anew.

~

**III. Crescendo**

He shouldn’t still be feeling that tickle of arousal, not after Zagreus felled Asterius and has turned upon him with a hunter’s stare. It is only worsened in Asterius’ absence, mingling with the adrenaline so tightly that Theseus cannot tell which is which. His body is tense with anticipation. It is impossible to not look at Zagreus appreciatively, the way he glistens with exertion and courage, and though the stands cry out around them, they are but two primal forces in the ring. This is how it was meant to be.

“One to go,” Zagreus calls, loud enough for Theseus to hear over the shades’ cheers.

The king quakes. He knows that _this_ is not the attention he craves from Zagreus — but it’s enough, to have the young god seek to devour him in a different way. The intensity makes Theseus’ heart quicken. All he can manage in reply is a glorious laugh; but Zagreus ought to know by now that his laughter is surrender to thoughts he does not know how to say.

“Olympians, I call upon your aid!” Theseus shouts to the heavens, and immediately he is met by a delighted _hmmm_ that dances through his head. His throat runs tight. Damn it all! Her presence comes too quickly to not have already been watching, to have been summoned by entirely _different_ means. Theseus hesitates. He cannot possibly refuse her, but now it’s horribly apparent that his crime beats loudly enough in his breast that even the gods can hear. He relents, “Lady Aphrodite!”

The goddess’ light bathes the arena floor, submerging Zagreus in it. For a moment it nearly blinds Theseus as well. Briefly, his heart skips, wondering if perhaps she would taunt him by charming the daemon like he’s seen her do to others. What a curse that would be! He does not have the time to deal with Zagreus’ addled mind, in this arena of champions!

(It’s a lie, of course, and even he knows that he would crumble if Zagreus looked to him with doe eyes and swore to him his blade, promised him his _body_ , dropped that sword to spread himself open instead—)

But no, she’s simply weakened him, made his body sluggish. Zagreus is lifting his sword with more emphasis and clenching his jaw in a way that makes him both petulant and strong. This, of course, would be the perfect time to strike him — though somehow Theseus is struck dumb, wielding his shield before him as he admires the stout step Zagreus takes in his direction. Those twin-colored colored eyes lift to pin him and, as their gazes lock, he gives Theseus one of those horrible, cocky grins upturning one of his cheeks. And then — _then_ , the damned prince licks his lips like he’s paid for it, and Theseus can’t help the gasp that catches in his throat.

He hopes, at least, Zagreus believes it’s one of disgust.

“Whorish daemon!” he growls at him. The spear twirls in his hand and he brings it down hard against the arena floor, with as much force as he wishes with which he could slam Zagreus beneath him.

Zagreus doesn’t respond the way he wants him to. He doesn’t pop his hip or suck on his fingers or drop to his knees and crawl. The ghost of words that could-have-been whisper in Theseus’ mind: _I am, for you._ Instead, Zagreus deviates from Theseus’ script. His sword smashes to the ground and shakes it, even amidst the pink illumination of Aphrodite. The earth trembles and finally does Theseus move — aiming his blessed spear to Zagreus’ chest and throwing it with a great swing of his arm. It flashes through the air but lands solidly into a pillar’s side, sending the shades atop it tittering. Theseus swears beneath his breath to watch Zagreus scamper out from behind it. On his lit footsteps is the promise of Ares, this time: the inky blood kisses Aphrodite’s blessing as he runs, the union of love and war.

The king’s spear returns to his waiting fingers, though Theseus has been realizing a discrepancy between him and Zagreus. He fights as a hero should: a singular weapon, bold intent, and whatever the gods with to give him. Zagreus, however, battles as the true blackguard he is. Theseus is still familiarizing himself with the godling’s array of enchanted weaponry, the way he ducks and dodges like a coward, and perhaps worst of all, snivels for whatever gifts the Olympians will grant him. He is of their blood, Theseus will admit; however, it says nothing of Zagreus’ singular strength, and he has half a mind to think if he confronted Zagreus in Tartarus, their duels would be much better balanced. It does not help matters that who Zagreus _truly_ is has piqued Theseus’ interest. Asterius has found a spit of respect for their opponent that Theseus refuses to match — not when the fiend wears a different mask each time they meet.

(Perhaps, he does not know himself either. It reminds Theseus of himself in his youth, his naked emblem, his sole purpose to earn the love of Athens. But he won’t afford Zagreus that benefit of doubt.)

He’s turned a shoulder, pacing across the arena’s perimeter to line up his next shot. Too much clouds his head to think properly of Zagreus’ strategy this time about; the sword paired with his cousin’s thirst of blood, so different from their last meeting when Zagreus fought with a hail of Artemis’ arrows. And he should have expected it, and hates himself when he doesn’t, when the heat of Zagreus’ sword slices across his back. Theseus yelps as the pain splits him — and somehow, it’s the last straw. When he whips about there’s fire in his eyes: smoldering hatred, and it’s for them both.

“Insignificant, vile, cowardly maggot!” he spits, and he swings his spear with reckless abandon. There’s a smidge of satisfaction when Zagreus’ eyes snap wide and he moves to parry each wild shot. “Do you think I shall ever yield to the likes you? Do you think you think you shall impress anything upon me — _nay_ , upon this fine arena, you wretched filth? Again and again you crawl through these halls, to misbegotten ends!”

A wail and a gasp of exertion mingle as he slashes his spear in an arc. The tip cuts across Zagreus’ chest and the prince winces as red drips in a crescent down his skin; it should have been a victory, but Theseus feels nothing but hollow.

“I could say the same to you, you know,” Zagreus is suddenly replying. He’s breathless; it’s how Theseus has always wished he’d sound, but the words are all wrong. “This whole ‘Champion of Elysium’ thing, it’s just something my father cooked up to get you to stand here. It doesn’t mean anything, really.”

“How _dare_ —!” he snarls. “You know _nothing_ of nobility!”

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, for a warrior never abandons his weapons, but some other passion has tugged his spear and shield from his hands. They clatter to the ground as he dives at Zagreus with his hands bare. The fiend makes a surprised noise and does not even defend himself from Theseus’ fingers finding purchase, one clutching the front of his robes and the other upon the crest of his hound mantle. A leg sweeps around the back of Zagreus’ and in a singular movement, Theseus is shoving him off his feet and pushing him to the ground.

Zagreus hits the dirt with satisfying wheeze. His free hand has come to cling to the cloth across Theseus’ chest and the other still grips his sword — but for that moment he does not move, staring up at Theseus straddling him. The king is heaving breaths and dizzy with how _hot_ he has become. Zagreus is flattened, wondrously, beneath him, and his entire body burns like a bow drawn tight for too long.

“This, ah, doesn’t feel very noble,” Zagreus comments.

He seems altogether too calm about the situation. Theseus wants to choke him — gods, there’s no use denying anything, not when it’s staring back at him with red and green eyes. He wants to coat Zagreus’ pretty chest with sweat and blood and bite marks. He wants to bury himself within Zagreus and fuck him until he screams. Aphrodite’s heavenly light haloes them and comes no closer; even the noises of the shades have faded to a distant murmur.

The pink is reflecting in Zagreus’ widened, waiting eyes. Theseus fists his robes tighter. Never before has he touched him, and the brush of Zagreus’ knuckles against his chest are so different than they felt in his perverse dreams. It burns a blush to his cheeks and suddenly he cannot stand Zagreus looking at him with that foolish, cocked brow. Theseus snorts. “ _Hmph_ , such an act would only be wasted on you.”

“Well, you’ve got plenty of time to waste.”

Theseus’ mouth snaps open to retort, but all of a sudden, he’s overtaken by that unearthly chill of death through his spirit. He didn’t even feel the sword breach his stomach, but when he glances down, it’s there: driven right through him beneath where Zagreus still holds his tunic.

His jaw slackens and he manages a choking breath. “You… fiend,” he forces out. It’s not for the wound or the defeat, but the power Zagreus does not even know he wields. Theseus has embraced death before and he will again and again, for it holds no strength if it cannot even cleanse him. His limbs sag beneath him and he collapses — falling into the forbidden darkness of the godling’s chest, his last thought of Zagreus’ parted lips, like the cut of a reaper’s scythe.

Was he laughing, or—?

~

**IV. Climax**

Theseus is still hard when he comes to. He awakens sharply and immediately he’s twisting himself onto his stomach to hide it from Asterius looming over him. No matter who perishes first, they always wait to be reunited; it is a ritual that Theseus normally cherishes, but right now he feels nothing but shame. The minotaur mistakes the furrow of his brow for frustration out of defeat (not for the loss of something else, one which he will never have) and offers him a hand to help him up.

“You fought well, king,” Asterius tells him. He always says it, and it is always true, for fighting is what makes Theseus, what has carved his legacy. However this time — his companion was not a witness to what made his defeat. Asterius will learn soon enough, either by the shades or Theseus’ own guilty tongue, but right now he can’t bear the thought of it. Not when the image of Zagreus is still shuddering through him.

“Not well _enough_!” Theseus snaps. The ferocity of it seems to take Asterius back, as his companion frowns at him, and quickly Theseus rethinks his words. He tosses his head, reaching to take Asterius’ hand. “I am sorry, my friend, but these most vile defeats... they have left their scar.”

“You cannot compare your strength to his.” Asterius is patient as he always is, but in this moment, Theseus feels almost like he is talking to a stranger. Their conversation is on two different tracks. It is not in the king’s nature to be two-faced, and his shame only grows as Asterius continues. “The Underworld sheltered him. _You_ have taught him how to fight. His victories mirror your greatness.”

There is something of a compliment in that, but it’s not enough upon his bitter ears. Theseus sours. Once, he was strong enough to defeat the young god. It is not as Asterius thinks — that Zagreus is growing _stronger_ — but rather the opposite. _He_ is becoming weaker, and he cannot bear to tell Asterius why. That he would drop his weapons…!

“Then I will grow mighty enough to once again kill him where he stands!” Theseus announces, and his spear flutters up from the ground to meet his outstretched grasp. Theseus’ hard gaze finds Asterius’, but beneath the bull’s eyes he softens. It makes him guilty, to worry his friend so, and even worse to conceal the absolute truth from him. Readily, he turns away, so that Asterius cannot see how his jaw clenches. “Leave me for a while, Asterius. I will regain my hero’s strength, and then we shall give that daemon the defeat he so deserves!”

Asterius looks upon him for a good moment, but finally does the minotaur snort. “Do not deny yourself peace, king. Your pride is wounded only by itself.”

His words do not make much sense, but Theseus can barely focus on them, haunted by the emotion running through his veins. It must show in his face: there is naught he can disguise from Asterius, but the minotaur has acquiesced, and soon his bulk vanishes beyond a far wall. Immediately Theseus is turning on his heel in the opposite direction. If it is freedom he seeks, perhaps that is his key: though Zagreus weakens him, all he must do is grow stronger still. Eventually, the fiend will once again slip beneath his notice and cease to plague him. It is a trial, and he has prepared for worse in the past — sought them out, in fact, to prove his strength.

Though it is preparations, he muses, that he cannot wholly focus on until he’s rid himself of want.

The gardens of Elysium are labyrinthine, which is a blessing as he tucks himself far from the main halls, beyond where the rousing voices of his fellow heroes can reach. His back slumps against the stone wall; even the serenity of the cool run of Lethe cannot soothe the heat beneath his skin, and he scarcely notices it as he rids himself of his belt. It falls unceremoniously beside him, and Theseus lets out a shaking sigh as he teases his fingers down his lower stomach. He is _aching_ in the memory of how simple it was to push Zagreus onto his back, to sit atop of him, to bring him to attention.

No — no matter what, he will not say his name.

Yet, his lips are already shaping the three syllables, so shameless and needy—

 _Zagreus_.

—and for once, he’s too weak to stop himself. It feels too good to fall into the fantasy that he’s had at his fingertips. He’s so sensitive that Theseus gives a throaty moan as thumbs at the precum that has beaded at the tip of his cock. Then he’s running his palm down his entire length and his hips are rolling into it so wantonly that he shifts to the balls of his feet.

_Zagreus._

_He’s pulled the prince up to kneel as he stands before him, and the way Theseus caresses his hair and cheek is nearly gentle. It is a king’s touch to his toy: so beautifully pliant beneath him, a warm blush across Zagreus’ face. They both know the godling craves to be brought to heel; though it is for Theseus’ whims that he undresses all pretense and drops to his knees. The minute way he leans in Theseus’ fingers speak enough, and his lashes flutter, lips parted for however the King of Athens wishes to fill him._

_It’s two fingers first. They breach over Zagreus’ upper lip and the daemon takes them straight to the back of his throat, so eager to choke._

_“A whore for but two fingers,” Theseus croons down at him as Zagreus’ tongue parts them in his mouth, lavishing each thoroughly. He moans around them, as much of an agreement as can speak._

The noise, as always, makes Theseus’ cock jump in his hand. He’s stroking himself in rhythm now, head tipped back against the wall, keening noises rippling the silence of the riverbank.

_He slips his fingers back out without ceremony. They’re practically dripping, and Zagreus chases them with his tongue as they go. “So desperate to be filled,” Theseus husks with a laugh as he reaches out and catches the tip of Zagreus’ tongue between his thumb and forefinger. “And on the ground, right where a creature like you belongs.”_

_Zagreus keeps his tongue presented and does not budge as Theseus removes his hand, save for to stretch his jaw wider to accommodate what he knows will come. He’s hard, for certain he is, his slender cock untouched and pressing against his thigh. His breathing becomes hurried as Theseus cups that back of his head and brings the tip of his cock to his lips. They both know it: Zagreus’ mouth was made for him. It offers no resistance as Theseus curls his hand in Zagreus’ hair and pulls; instead, the prince moans in gratitude, sliding his mouth over Theseus’ length._

_“And this? Is this what you’ve craved, daemon?” Theseus mocks him; in a fantasy, it would be Zagreus who breaks and begs, who proves himself weaker than Theseus, as he has always been. Zagreus’ warmth is consuming him as the godling’s tongue licks along his girth, pushing his length so deep in his throat he’s already begun to drool. He’s a slut for it, too well-trained to stroke himself, and Theseus has envisioned so many times how he might come just from the taste of his king in his mouth._

_Theseus himself is going to come too quickly. He grits his teeth and pulls Zagreus off him with a yank to his hair. By the way the prince’s eyes roll back and his thighs widen, he knows this is what Zagreus craves, what he needs._

_“So tell it to your king.” Even within his own mind, his voice is dark and heady with desire. “Or I shall leave you here, hard and thinking of me.”_

Ah, sweet irony. But it cannot touch him, not when he’s so desperately touching himself. He’s paused to squeeze his base as his orgasm threatens to curl through him. Not yet — he cannot…

_“I need it,” Zagreus’ words come breathless in his voice, an imitation of how it was before. “Gods you’re so large, please — hah… please, use me...”_

Theseus grips himself tighter. Would he ever say this? It does not matter.

_“But do you deserve it? For all the annoyance you have bestowed upon me, you dare to beg me of this?”_

_Zagreus’ eyes are lidded and hazy, but even still he attempts to lean back in, his breath brushing against Theseus’ sensitive girth. “Ah — no,” he manages in his stupor. “Only just—… only for however you like. However you command.”_

_Theseus ignores the plea, despite the raw heat it sends through him. “And leaking from the taste of me alone!” He instead shifts to press his sandal against Zagreus’ gorgeous, aching cock. The head of it is molten and aflame just as his feet are, and for one weak moment, Theseus wonders how it might feel inside of him. The contact sends Zagreus groaning, head bowed as he leans in to thrust against his sole — once, twice, then Theseus removes his foot as quickly as he brought it._

_He scoffs. “You transparent creature. All of that wit so I’ll use you for my pleasure.”_

_Zagreus licks his swollen lips as he recovers. “Is it working?” that shameless fiend asks of him, eyes dancing._

It is. Theseus has to grind his teeth to suppress a whine. Even in the king’s own fantasies, Zagreus is still so damned sarcastic, and it makes him despise himself all the more that he _enjoys_ it. That it could not be any other way.

_Theseus grumbles. “Ravenous whore,” he hisses, and Zagreus’ throat opens as Theseus pushes himself back inside._

_The prince hums around his cock. His cheeks hollow around it, hot and wet, letting Theseus tug at his head as he bobs up and down. Never does his gaze, so full of lust and simmered fire, leave Theseus’, not even as a particularly deep thrust makes him choke and give a wrung-out moan._

_“Is this how you, hah, beg for my come?” Theseus asks him, but the voice in his head is weak, swallowed up as the daydream begins to fragment beneath his fervor. Even still, the sound of Zagreus breathing through his nose, pressed up against the base of his dick, fuels him. He’s begun to fuck his throat with abandon, clutching Zagreus against him and watching the swell of his cock disappear between those stretched pink lips. He’s throbbing, far too close, his balls tight and tingling as Zagreus lets him thrust into him over the flat of his tongue. “T-this is a far better use for your offensive tongue! A-ah—… show to me what you were made for, Zagre—!”_

He’s coming so abruptly, pleasure licking down his spine and his toes curling in his sandals as he jerks up into his own touch. Except his eyes are still clamped shut and it’s not his hand but Zagreus’ mouth and the way the prince’s lashes flutter and his throat flexes as he swallows him, desperate for him like bottled ambrosia. The king arches back against the wall; his entire body trembles, and he’s dimly aware he’s making some horrible, needy sound through his orgasm that he pretends would truly come from Zagreus’ lips instead.

Finally, his cock limp in his palm, Theseus’ mind resurfaces. He blinks his eyes open to gaze upon the bright world around him: the gentle grasses, the undisturbed river, and the absolute mess he’s made in his hand. His teeth grit and he wipes it off on the grass as he stoops to grab his belt. Unsatisfying. _Humiliating_. The itch has been far from scratched and how even worse to know that somewhere deep in the pits beneath him, Zagreus is selecting his weapon to wet Theseus’ blood and win him his next victory to the surface.

Theseus buckles his belt tight back around his waist. Whenever Zagreus calls, he will be there, tainting his pallid flesh until the god finally surrenders to his knees before him.

**Author's Note:**

> this was so delightful to write, theseus/zagreus lust is growing on me so much.
> 
> thank you so much for reading! :) as always feel free to follow me at first_ginger on twitter where i never shut up about theseus


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